Free On the Third Day by David Niall Wilson Page B

close-up. His eyes were glazed, his head lolled to one side and his lips moved very gently.  The voice that crashed through the speakers, louder and louder, was as powerful as ever, but the incongruity of that monstrous sound escaping those still, almost lifeless lips was eerie and disturbing.  Impossible
                And the blood ran in fine rivulets from a scored, raw ring somewhere above his hairline.  With the camera zoomed in on his features, deep gouges were visible in his skin – punctures, not slices.  The blood formed a headband of gore and dripped down over his unseeing eyes and across his lips, which never ceased their movement.  The streamers of red met, eventually, winding over the contours of his face and down to stain his white collar deep, rich red.
                There was too much of it to have come from a single man.  The pool on the floor was thick and clotted, running off over the edge of the altar and down to the rail below where the faithful knelt for communion.  Where, in fact, many had knelt just at that moment.
                The Mass drew to a close.  There was no sign that Father Thomas knew he was speaking the words, or that he stood crucified in the air by unseen supports, or that he was soaked and matted in blood.  There was no sign, that is, until the final words were spoken.  
                At that moment, a very bright white light interfered with the film, and it was difficult to make out just what was going on.  There was movement, but whether it was one, two, or more persons was impossible to tell.  The glow faded, and Father Thomas stood alone on the altar, blinking slowly.  He crossed himself and stared out over the cathedral, and then down at his feet – at those backing away into the aisles and those kneeling at the altar, their foreheads pressed to the shiny, polished wood.
                In that instant, understanding flooded his features.  He seemed to become suddenly aware of his surroundings, of the cries and prayers and screams surrounding him, of the thick, slick blood beneath his feet and drying across his pale, drawn face.
                He glanced up then, straight into the lens of the camera, his eyes awash in pain and a pleading, beseeching question stillborn on his lips.  He held out one trembling hand to the balcony, and then, without a sound, collapsed backward onto the altar, unconscious.
                The film didn’t end with Father Thomas’ collapse, but the tone shifted.  The exaltation that had emanated from the small screen was replaced by panic and desperation.
                The members of his parish ran for the doors, cried out in the aisles, and prayed loudly in small groups.  The back doors were flung wide, letting in the brilliant sunlight to cut a swath down the center aisle, straight to where Father Thomas lay prone and unmoving.
                The old woman that Donovan had seen before, with two others in tow and a third helping her up the wide, carpeted stairs, made her way to Father Thomas’ side.  She dropped to her knees, drew his head into her ample lap, and snapped something inaudible at one of her companions, who sprinted toward the rectory without a backward glance, looking for a telephone, and for help, he supposed.
                There was a loud scuffing sound, and another curse.  The camera angle shifted again, canted to the side, and was followed by a dull thud as the screen went dark.
                Father Prescott sat for a long time staring at the screen.  It had returned to the cheerful, colorful matinee image he’d seen when the video program first opened.  There was no sound, and the combination of the headphones and pressure from the altitude closed off all sounds save the pounding of Donovan’s heart.
                Very slowly he removed the headphones and laid them on the table beside him.  He